A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael staggered back, brain screaming out against the absurdity of what he had just witnessed. Impossible – it was impossible – it was another dream – he would wake up in a minute – wake up, wake up, wake up –

Frances stepped forward, looked calmly down at Fitzpatrick's body. "Nice shot," he said, nonchalantly thrusting his hands in his pockets.

"Nice segue," Legs replied, grinning lopsidedly; most of his left cheek was missing. When he moved his mouth the great gaping hole flexed and split, showing the white bone beneath the flesh. Michael felt his gorge rise; he was suddenly dizzy and very hot, and could taste bile. He dropped to his knees and vomited on Major-General Fitzpatrick's shiny black boots, reflecting miserably as he retched that it served the nasty bastard right. He raised a shaking hand to his lips and heard Legs make a clucking noise above him.

"Oh, Michael," Frances chided, his voice gentle, kneeling beside him and embracing him warmly. "It's a bit much for you, isn't it, darling?" Michael felt him tenderly stroking his hair, brushing back the sweaty curls from his forehead and smoothing them back on to his skull. Relieved despite his stomach's rejection of All Things Edible Michael closed his eyes and leaned back against Frances' chest, eking what comfort he could from his lover's touch.

"Not fuckin' used to it, poor bugger," came Legs' voice from above them. Michael didn't dare look up at him; he was sure he'd throw up again if he did. But then if he looked around the room, he saw lots of things that would make him throw up – he clenched his eyes shut and moaned, clutching his stomach, which hurt. "Can't bloody blame him, can we? Fuckin' dead bodies all over."

"Frankly I think it's you making him sick," said Frances. He grasped Michael's jeans firmly in his hands, tugged them up over his buttocks, and fastened them. "There – that's better isn't it?" he asked, giving Michael's cheek a kiss and standing up again. "Good heavens, Legolas, doesn't that hurt?"

"Fuckin' A, hurts like bloody screaming hell," said Legolas. Despite himself Michael looked up at him; he was reaching his long, black-clad fingers to tentatively touch his ruined face. "Fuck, what the fuck's up with this; why haven't I got any fucking depth perception?"

"Because your left eyeball's gone, silly," said Frances, rolling his eyes but smiling nonetheless. When Legs started to probe at the opened skull he said sharply, "Now, stop that this instant. Just wait a minute, and I'll get something to put you back together again … Humpty-Dumpty." He smiled then, a warm smile, which Legs answered; and Michael, through his nausea, felt better. Frances really DIDN'T hate Legs, Frances really WOULDN'T betray them. Then his breath hitched on a cold doubt: Did Frances really mean it when he'd told Major-General Fitzpatrick that his life would mean nothing without him? Had that been Just-Pretend, too? His stomach twisted again and he closed his eyes, preferring the ignorant dark.

He heard Frances cross the room and start opening cabinet doors, rummaging around. He heard Legs moving away, walking to the door and pausing, then there was the sound of the door being shut and locked. "There," Legs said, his voice sounding satisfied. "If there are any of the manky little tossers running round, they won't suss us out here."

"H – how are we going to get out?" asked Michael miserably from where he knelt in a pile of vomit and blood. He looked down at his hands and promptly wished he hadn't, and when he turned to look at Frances he felt a sharp twinge in his eye and winced.

"Nice shiner you've got, mate," said Legs' voice from above him. Michael still didn't want to look at him; his stomach was feeling far too delicate. "Which one hit you, that greasy blart there?"

"I don't know," whispered Michael, squeezing his eyes shut, though he could feel the lump forming over his eyelid, and it was throbbing slightly. "Some big guy."

"Well, I topped 'im for yer. Topped 'em all, really, mate." Michael looked up at him. He didn't want to look – he was trying hard not to look – but somehow he couldn't help looking at Legs. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking round at all the bodies and scratching the part of his head that was still attached. The expression on the remaining half of his face was satisfied. "Normally I fuckin' hate toppin' patriots, but these manky twats bloody well deserved it."

"I'm just glad you got here when you did," said Frances; his demeanor had lost its customary coolness and he seemed truly grateful – not something Michael associated with his Alpha; it seemed a little Unnatural to him. Frances approached them, his arms full of bandages and surgical tape. "All right, Humpty-Dumpty, let's see what all the king's men can do for you." His voice was light, gentle and teasing, and through his misery Michael felt a stab of jealousy. What had they been like with each other, when they were together? Had they been like this, lighthearted and taunting? He watched them, his stomach roiling, as Legs sat on one of the blood-splattered chairs, and Frances fussed and tutted over his skull. "You're missing half your brains, you know," he said archly, raising an eyebrow at Legs. "I'm surprised you're still functioning."

"Ah, never use 'em anyway," grinned Legs, showing his cheekbone. "Not smart like you – Ilúvatar blessed me elsewhere. Look, there's some of it over there – just scoop it up and bung it in; it'll sort itself out eventually."

"You'll have carpet fibers in your head."

"I've got a fuckin' bullet in me loaf; a couple bits of carpet won't do me any harm."

"Oh, god," moaned Michael, transfixed by the sight of his lover dropping gelatinous bloody chunks into the gaping wound of Legs' head – it was disgusting, but he couldn't look away. He retched once more but held it, determined to toughen himself; after all if he were to start hanging around with This Sort of Person he'd better develop a less sensitive constitution. Frances held the loose parts of Legs' brains still and slowly raised the flap of the skull, like a drawbridge going up; Legs cursed fluidly, creatively, drawing out a string of almost incomprehensible invective at the sensation, but when at last the pieces were in place, matted with bloody hair and crooked tattered bits of skin, he gave a sigh of relief.

"Ah, feel better already, I do," he said. "Fuck, I need a lollie after that. Either of you got a lollie or a pastille or summat?"

"You must be joking," said Frances dryly.

"There are granola bars outside in the backpacks," said Michael, remembering the feel of half-digested granola being regurgitated. Surprisingly enough his stomach behaved. "I must be completely empty," he thought. "Either that or I'm getting used to this." He wasn't sure which was worse.

"Fuck, no muesli for me," said Legs. Frances had unwound white sterile strappings and was wrapping them around Legs' head, holding it together. "Neither of you got any sweets? No chocolates, nothing? Fuck," he sighed dejectedly. "Really need something in me gob, I do." He glanced around for a moment, his blue eye darting about the room, then brightened. "Mike," he said eagerly, "One of these feckers has some fags – I can fuckin' smell 'em from here. I think it's that josser in the corner. Suss it out, will yer?"

"Good grief, Legolas – " said Frances, but Michael, feeling that first of all he owed Legs for saving his life, and secondly nothing could be worse than watching someone's brains get scooped into their skull, got shakily to his feet and went to the corner. One of the men was lying there – it was the one that had punched him – the body was twisted, still; there was a red circle in the center of his forehead, about the size of a dime, about which was spattered a star-pattern in blood. He looked surprised; his eyes were wide open, and his tongue was clenched between his teeth, his lips drawn back in an aborted snarl. Michael looked away, fought down another wave of nausea, and tried to put the image out of his head. He knelt beside the man and sniffed. He could smell, over the faint scent of disinfectant and gunpowder, stale cigarette smoke. Tentatively he groped in the front breast pocket of the uniform, careful not to look at the man's face, and found a crinkly rectangular box; he withdrew it and saw it was a pack of Marlboroughs©, half full. Fortunately the bullet had gone into the man's head and not his heart. Michael stood up and held them out.

"Is this what you wanted, Legs?" he asked. His voice shook a little, and he grimaced impatiently. Hntednted to be Strong and Brave, not whimper like a little boy. Legs grinned at him and pulled off his thin black gloves.

"Fuckin' marvelous, this Mary-Ann," he said, his voice thick with gloating. "Ah, he's a nice little bugger – wang it here, mate."

Michael thought perhaps he meant to throw it, but his hands were shaking so badly he was sure his aim would be way off, so instead he picked his way fastidiously over the twisted limbs of the fallen to where Legs sat, and Frances worked over him. "Here," he said, a little diffidently, putting the box in Legs' hand.

"I owe yer, mate," said Legs. "Ah, pukka! Got a lighter in here already." He shook out a cigarette and a green lighter, put the filter between his lips and struck up a flame.

"Éowyn's going to kill you," scolded Faramir, who was securing the strappings with tape. "You know how she feels about tobacco."

"But she isn't here, is she, mate?" Legs took a deep drag on the cigarette, closing his eyes in ecstasy. "Ahhhh," he sighed as he exhaled; blue smoke curled out of his nose and mouth, and Michael saw some seeping through the side of the bandages. He gave a weak chuckle. "What?" asked Legs around the cigarette.

"You're leaking," said Michael. "Here. The smoke's coming out here, too." He pointed to a spot next to Legs' nose; it was most likely the crushed sinus giving way. Legs grinned at him, his one blue eye twinkling mischievously; he took another deep drag, pinched his nostrils shut and closed his mouth, and paused; then a stream of smoke let loose from the side of his head, like a steam-engine letting fly. Michael laughed despite himself, and Frances shook his head, severely tamping down a mutinous smile.

"You two," he said, exasperated and affectionate all at once. "Honestly, like kids, the both of you."

"Give over," said Legs, putting the cigarette to his lips again. "If you don't laugh, you cry."

That was certainly true, thought Michael ruefully; now that Legs' face and head were wrapped neatly in white bandages he didn't look so bad – if you discounted that sickening concavity over where his ear had been – but the rest of the room was harrowing in its aftermath of violence, and he didn't dare look too closely at the bodies. To be honest, he was rather glad the soldiers weren't around to perpetrate any further atrocities – whether they'd known about this, this Sŏndŏk virus or not – whatever it was – men who thought that gang-raping another man was an acceptable pastime were probably not to be trusted amongst ordinary folk, or for that matter, other Army guys – he shuddered, thinking about what Boot Camp must've been like for their fellow recruits, and decided not to deface any posters after all. He'd known some ROTC types in college and they hadn't been all that bad.

"All right," said Frances, patting the top of Legs' head with satisfaction. "Humpty-Dumpty has been put back together again. Hopefully by the time we get to Miami you'll have healed enough to take the bandages off."

"Eh, probably," said Legs indifferently, getting up. Michael stared at them. For starters, how was it that Legs was alive after having half his brain shot out? Wasn't "dead" DEAD? And even if it weren't, how on earth could he think he'd fully heal in a scant few days – depending, of course, on how long it took them to get to Miami – Legs turned to say something to him, but suddenly leery Michael took a step back, and Legs paused, his face thoughtful. After a minute he smiled and reached up to his remaining ear, pulling the thick sheet of hair from around it.

"Mike," he said gently. "Look."

Michael tentatively crept forward, still unwilling to get too close to a potential Zombie or Vampire or Mummy, or something like that, from a horror flick. Legs tipped his head to the side, showing Michael his ear. It was – different – not round, like Michael had expected, it was curved – long, pointed, like a leaf from a crepe myrtle. Michael hadn't been able to see it before, obscured as it had been behind that shimmering curtain of blond hair, but there it was – alien, deformed, abnormal – inhuman.

"Oh, my god," Michael whispered, his heart giving a hard ker-flump.

"Explains a lot, doesn't it?" grinned Legs, letting the hair slide back into place and straightening up. "There you are, then, pet – not a fuckin' zombie, this undead shite's not on anyway. Just a delaying tactic on yer clever boyfriend's part."

"You're not – not – " Michael couldn't bring himself to say it; so many strange and horrible things had happened – and yet – it made so much sense – it explained so much – and to deny the evidence of his own senses –

"Not like you – leave it at that, mate," said Legs gently. "Now, come on, you lot. Longshanks is waiting, we'd best hoof it P.D.Q." He turned to the back corner of the room, and for the first time Michael noticed a panel in the ceiling had been removed, exposing HVAC ductwork, and he realized that was how Legs had entered the room – and that was how he was proposing they leave. He hoped they fit; he and Frances weren't very large men, but that looked to be a very, very small opening … He frowned, tilted his head to the side, and saw it was bigger than the opening beneath the chainlink fence; yes, they could fit. He sighed in relief. He knew neither Legs nor Frances would have left him behind, but he didn't want to be an impediment any more – "All I've done is get in the way and delay them," he thought unhappily, remembering Legs coming to The Lido to fetch him, Frodo driving him up the mountain, Dr. Walker pushing water and granola bars on him, them having to set up a tent so he could sleep – really, it was rather debasing, knowing you were nothing more than spare luggage, and that it was only someone's good nature keeping you from being left somewhere, to be picked up later at their convenience. "I even got Legs shot," he thought miserably. "Even if he is a Vulcan or something that must've really hurt. And it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been here." He sighed and wondered if Frances resented him – weak, cowardly, inefficient Michael, tagging along and slowing them down.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he jumped; it was Legs – how did he manage to walk so quietly, anyway? Was that part of his Alienness? Michael looked into his ruined face, at the smooth white cheekbone and delicate curve of the jaw, the long straight nose and broad forehead, the eye –

He blinked and gulped, his heart going ker-flump again. The eye was GLOWING.

Legs' expression was serene, relaxed; the cupids-bow lips smiled gently. "All have their purpose, and none are without worth," he said in an odd voice, a kind of hollow, echoy voice. "There is strength and courage in you that have only begun to be tapped."

Michael stared. This was even weirder than seeing his skull hanging off. Legs looked remote, aloof, somehow absent; the neon shimmering eye hardly focused on him. He turned to Frances, bewildered and a little scared; his lover was studying Legs worriedly.

"What does his future hold?" Frances asked. His voice was tense and fearful, and didn't sound as though he were addressing Legs at all – it was more as though he were talking to someone else, someone who was speaking through Legs' mouth. Perhaps he was, thought Michael; considering how strange the past week had been, nothing seemed out of the bounds of his consideration at this point.

Legs turned to him, a flicker of pity skittering across that alabaster face, half-obscured in surgical wrappings. "Death," he answered calmly. Frances blanched and bit his lip. "So it must be for all mortals."

Frances struggled with that, dismay and anger fighting for control of his facial expression; Legs only stood serenely, seemingly unmoved by his pronouncement. "Why him?" asked Frances finally, in a strangled voice.

"Do you again dispute our choice?"

Frances stared at Legs, at the alien and gently indifferent face, flustered and despondent; he looked so melancholic Michael wanted to hug him, but obviously he and Legs were having some sort of Moment and to interrupt at this stage would be wildly inappropriate. There was evidently some sort of struggle going on, but there was no pressure or feeling of oppression this time, as there had been at The Lido; this time the skirmish was being carried on in Frances' mind alone. After a moment he dropped his eyes.

"No," he whispered.

"Be well, beloved Steward," said Legs; his hollow voice echoed with compassion and tenderness. Then there was the feeling of a rubber band snapping back, and the neon glow flickered out; Legs gasped and wavered, groping for the back of a chair to steady himself. "Bloody hell," he panted, closing his eye.

Michael looked at Frances. He had covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders were shaking. Michael didn't blame him – he felt like shaking himself. But whatever it was that had spoken to Frances through Legs had not frightened Michael – instead he felt oddly comforted. Putting his arms round Frances' waist, he laid his head on his lover's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Abruptly Frances' long arms came around him, holding him tight.

Michael moved his cheek over the soft flannel shirt, feeling the tender swollen lid of his eye brush against a button. "He won't let me die until I'm finished being brave," he said. He wasn't sure how he knew it was true; he didn't even know who "he" was. He just knew it as Truth.

Frances became very still. Then he tipped Michael's face up to his own with his fingers, staring down at him. His gray eyes were glazed with tears, and he looked astonished. Behind him Michael heard Legs chuckle weakly.

"Got Manwë sussed, that one," he said shakily. "Come on, you two. You can snog later." And holding out his hand to Michael he led him to the duct and gestured him in.